


little sand dunes

by koedeza



Series: prompts [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Dean taking care of Sam, Gen, kind of, poor sammy needs a break, sick!Sam, the ocean and a little cottage and they're slightly settled down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: based on the prompt "do you feel ok?"or in which sam gets really sick and the boys settle by the ocean





	little sand dunes

Waves crash, again and again, beating the sand senseless. 

In his dreams, Sam is running through the water, happier than he’s ever been before. In his dreams, Sam is splashing him, the widest smile on his face. In his dreams, Sam is laughing so hard he can’t breathe. In his dreams, they’re tackling each other, fighting in the water and on the sand. Sun-kissed and content and at peace.

When Dean blinks, Sam’s breathing is so raspy and uneven, the hitch in his throat audible even through the crash of the waves. He guesses his little brother’s hearing’s been getting better while his breathing’s been getting worse because as soon as Dean twitches an arm forward, he’s hearing Sam’s whine again.

“You’re trying to help again. I told you,” His brother’s sandpaper voice warns him, “I’m better, it’s getting better.” Sam’s voice carries through the tiny room, and even though his back is turned to Dean, he can still picture the look of exasperated exhaustion.

Dean can tell, can see by the minute slump of Sam’s shoulders that it’s not, not really. He sighs and turns to open a drawer, throwing a pair of thick wool socks to where Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Ok. I’ll just stand here then.”

“You watching my back isn’t any better, you creep.”

“Hey, hey at least I don’t sound like a Darth Vader’s frog son who has a collapsed lung,” Dean crosses his arms smugly.

Sam stops putting the socks on and turns around, bitchface and all. 

“Jesus, Dean, do something with yourself. Go make breakfast.” 

“Yeah? You really want some?” Dean knows he’s getting too excited, knows he’s building up too much belief.Sees it when Sam turns and slumps his shoulders again.

“Uh, yeah… I’ll- I’ll go make breakfast.” Dean pretends not to deflate.

He walks down the stairs and thinks that in his dreams, Sam doesn’t lie to him.

 

-x-

 

Breakfast is quiet. Sam doesn’t eat, and Dean eats enough for both of them. In the harsh light of the early morning, he sees how ragged Sam looks, and catches how often he rubs his chest in pain. Dean makes him a hot chocolate out of a packet that he probably won’t drink and forces him to watch shitty television reruns that neither of them is really paying attention to.

When Sam’s falling asleep, Dean gets up and softly says he’s going out to get some more medicine and supplies, even though it’s only half true. They have enough supplies to last them through a blizzard, he’s made sure of that. It’s selfish to want to leave, he knows.

But Dean can’t stay here any longer.

 

-x-

 

Waves crash, again and again, beating the sand senseless.

It’s methodical and practiced, something that the water’s done for years. It’s fascinating. Sam stares outside, eyes squinted against the brightness of the ocean. There’s no sun, and the sky is a murky grey, but it still hurts his eyes.

The window is slightly ajar, held open with a spoon thanks to Dean’s improvisation skills. He’s told Sam too, that it was a dumb idea, that it should only be open for a little bit. “It’s chilly Sam,” and “Fine, but you close it after ten minutes.” Sam doesn’t care how cold it is. He’s suffocating in the tiny cottage.

Sam glances back from the window to the sliding doors in front of him, the fabric of curtains rustling lightly in the wind. There’s a breeze, soft and whispering, flowing past Sam’s ears and swirling his hair. It picks up loose notes on the coffee table and flutters the pages of his novel. The TV chatters in the background.

Fuck it. He gets off the couch, grabs the quilt that he’s been cocooned under, and slides open the glass door. The wind bites at him and he can hear the flurry of paper behind him, being picked up and thrown around by the violent air.

God, it smells so sharp. Sea salt and winter and what’s left over of the dark. He’s been holed up in the tiny house for so long he doesn’t even remember what it smelled like outside. With a bent arm, he slides the door shut and wraps himself inside the quilt, sniffing in so much his nostrils burn.

Cool, damp sand and the occasional patches of grass are what mar the path to the sea. He steps tentatively, like he hasn’t walked in a while, and goes forward into the wind. His hair whips around him and sometimes instead of seeing the ocean, he’ll see locks of dark brown hair that’ve gotten too long.

The sand on the East Coast isn’t like the Californian sand he remembers. Maybe it’s because the Winter’s made everything dull and unforgiving but when he sits down on the little dunes, the sand that makes them is not golden and soft. It’s rough and leeched of color, pale and stiff in the cold.

If he keeps staring ahead, he imagines he can see the point where the Atlantic and the sky merge, intertwining with each other like tangled yarn. He wonders how far out he’s really seeing, wonders if there’s anyone out on a little boat, letting the waves rock them back and forth.

When the waves crash it’s gentle but intended, like someone weaving rope together then tying the knot tight. Being alone in his mind for so long has helped him see things like they’re careful, quiet actions. Helps him quantify something so large like the ocean into something he can hold, something he can twist into real _enough_.

He can still see the frayed sailor’s rope on his ankle. The one they tied around his leg when they fished him out of the water, when they thought he was dead. Dean got angry, real angry, that they didn’t know how to check for a pulse or even to check for his breathing. Even now Dean gets mad when he sees it, tires conning Sam into cutting it off. Sam says he’ll take it off when he’s better. The last thing Sam said to him before they got him off the rig was that they tried. They tried and that was all that mattered.

If he hadn’t been half-dead he’s sure Dean would have beat the shit out of him.

 

-x-

 

Dean sees the little lump on the dune as soon as he gets out of the car. It’s not hard to spot, a bright patchwork quilt contrasted by the pale grey of everything else. He shakes his head in frustration and snatches a jacket from inside the car, running out to the dunes.

As he jogs over to Sam, the wind bites at his face and the smell of salt overcomes him.

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck?” He’s calling out, but Sam’s not even turning to face him. His heart hammers and he picks up the pace a little. As soon as he gets to him, Sam raises up a finger, as if silencing the world. His eyes are squinted and focused on the horizon.

Dean rolls his eyes and spreads out the jacket, placing it on Sam’s shoulders and then toppling over onto the sand. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s trying to be quiet.

Sam lets his arm slump down and pulls the jacket closer to him.

“What are you listening for?” Dean doesn’t realize he’s whispering and isn’t entirely angry when it makes Sam’s cracked lips twitch into a smile.

“Just for boats on the water,” Sam says quietly, gravel in his throat.

“Yeah, how’s that going for you?”

It earns Dean a little shove and an even wider crack at a smile.

“Little brother, you’re stupid, you know that?” Dean reaches up and feels Sam’s forehead, frowning a little at the lack of resistance. He grips his shoulder tightly and looks ahead at the waves. “Do you feel okay? And before you give me bitchface I don’t mean that. I mean-”

“I know what you mean. You’re sorry that I’ve been sick for this long and you’re sorry you shut me in the house for weeks and you’re sorry you leave because you go stir crazy and that you have to lie to me about it.” Sam says it matter-of-factly then turns to squint at Dean.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good Sam.” 

“Yeah?” 

There should be an afterthought, another word said. Instead, they let the waves crash into each other and pound into the sand, eyes focused on the point where the water meets the sky. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> holla at me on tumblr @koedeza  
> you can find more of my writing there


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